


When the Clocks Stop

by ravenslight



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Adventure-ish, Alternate Dimension, Death's Intermediary, Established Relationship-ish, Harry Dies, M/M, Parallel Universes, Present Tense, Secret Relationship, Unfinished Business, but not really, idk - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-17
Updated: 2019-12-17
Packaged: 2021-02-26 03:01:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,853
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21836365
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ravenslight/pseuds/ravenslight
Summary: Harry was supposed to die… but he doesn’t. However, before he can return to his rightful dimension, he has to wrap up some unfinished business. Loosely (very, very loosely) inspired by the line "One of these days, the clocks will stop and time won't mean a thing" from the song These Days by the Foo Fighters
Relationships: Theodore Nott & Harry Potter, Theodore Nott/Harry Potter
Comments: 9
Kudos: 85





	When the Clocks Stop

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Frumpologist](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Frumpologist/gifts).



> Happy Christmas, Frumpologist! So this (clearly) goes over the word limit, but I got struck by a strange plunny and well, here we are. I'm so excited/nervous/all the things to gift this to you. I admire you as a writer and a person, and I'm so glad we've become friends recently! Your steady kindness, enthusiasm for fandom, and unabashed luring of people into rare pairs have become among my many favourite things about you, and I hope 2020 brings you nothing but joy and happiness. I hope you enjoy this strange bit of nonsense! P.S. this has not been betaed, so I apologize for any errors, as they entirely my own.

**When the Clocks Stop**

When Harry Potter dies, he assumes that the bright flash of green will be his last waking recollection. And for a while, it is. He is suspended, limbs seeming to float alongside him and buoyed in a thick darkness that feels like a quilt wrapping around him and lulling him into sleep.

If this is death, maybe it isn’t so bad after all. 

With an air of peace he’d never quite been able to find, Harry closes his eyes.

When he dies, the clocks stop.

* * *

He’s not sure if it’s been a moment or a millennium since his eyelids fluttered shut in that dark space he’d been in after Voldemort’s spell, but when he opens them again, he’s in a sitting room.

In fact, he’s stretched out on a worn oatmeal-coloured couch, an overstuffed pillow tucked comfortably behind his head and his arms settled easily on his chest. He expects to feel disconnected from himself, perhaps a little lost and world-weary, but when he swings his feet over the side and the sofa and stands, he feels more rested than he ever did in his entire seventeen years earthside. 

The room he’s in is cozy, if a little drab. Generic paintings hang on the walls, abstract brush strokes in a myriad of colours that inexplicably clash with the mostly neutral decor. In fact, beyond the teals and maroons and burnt oranges, the only splash of colour in the room is a gods-awful mustard rattan chair, in which a tabby cat with missing tufts of striped fur reclines.

It’s an odd scene, he thinks, but before he can explore further, a whicker fold-out door partitioning the room folds open, and a robed figure strides in. 

In his hands—because Harry is _fairly_ sure that the figure is a he, but he would be hard-pressed to bet on it given the way their face seems to flicker and a feature change every few moments—they hold a smile wooden serving tray, white-bone china cups resting on saucers, both of which are accented by gold leaf designs around the rims. They’re delicate in a way the figure holding them isn’t, and Harry watches curiously.

So focused on the task at hand, the robed man doesn’t realise Harry is standing until he’s nearly on top of him, and the man pauses with a jolt, splashes of tea threatening to spill up and over the fine edges of the china. 

It’s only when the man stops before him that Harry realises he’s seen the genteel face, the soft folds around the edges of his eyes, a thousand times before, but none of which he seems able to place. “You’re awake! Welcome.” His voice is raspy, but no less friendly for being so, and he settles the serving tray on an end table that Harry swears wasn’t there a moment before. “Help yourself, please. Tea is an English staple, yes?”

Humming his assent, Harry takes a cup, surveying the man before him. It’s only when he tips it to his lips and discovers it’s English Breakfast, perfectly sweetened to his taste, that he realises he never specified such, and no tea bags or sweetener accompany his cup.

Curious.

Sweeping his robes behind him, the man takes the other cup, the china rattling gently at the tremour in his hands, and retreats to the chair the tabby resides in. As though sensing his master’s approach, the tabby stretches lengthwise along the chair’s worn arm, a lazy yawn accompanying it.

The yellow of the rattan makes the man’s face paler, but Harry was instilled good manners by Mrs. Weasley, and he refused to let her down—in life or this strange version of afterlife.

After a moment, Harry settles down on the sofa, his spot still warm from where he’d reclined moments before, and again he finds himself wondering how he managed to find himself here. It’s strange, but not altogether unpleasant, and he follows the robed man’s lead, sipping silently from his own cup.

Eyes skirting around the room, Harry takes quick note of his remaining surroundings. And, that is to say, he notes the _scarcity_ of his surroundings. It’s not that there is anything alarming about it; no, quite the opposite. It’s disarmingly _quaint_ for death; truly the only alarming quality the place holds is that the clock on the wall opposite him does not tick to show the time.

In fact, the hands don’t move at all. 

“Quite strange, isn’t it, my dear boy?” Raspy and quiet, the man’s voice seems to well up out of nowhere, nearly like the man himself. Another sip of tea prefaces his next statement. “You flatter me so for fancying me as Death himself.” His shoulders lift delicately as he aims a smile that leans precariously toward mischievous at Harry. “You may think of me more as a page boy or intermediary for Death.”

Harry feels his brows draw down in confusion, scrutinising the old man. “So you’re job is to—”

The man laughs, a joyful sound that inexplicably puts Harry at ease. “It’s my job to guide those with unfinished business back.” 

As quickly as his brows had drawn down on his forehead, they shoot up into Harry’s hairline. “Unfinished business? I’m afraid you’re mistaken, sir— er, I hope you don’t mind—”

He interrupts Harry’s stuttering with a kind smile. “Sir is fine, though I much prefer Alastair. Or Al, if you’re so inclined.”

Nodding, Harry continues, settling his teacup aside. “Right, Al. I don’t have any unfinished business.” He knits his fingers together, once more eyeing the still clock before him. “I’ve finished my purpose.”

The war was supposed to end. He was supposed to sacrifice himself, lure Voldemort into a false sense of security, and then kill the old bastard once and for all. And that’s what happened. Or, part of it had. He _had_ sacrificed himself, and it stood to reason that he _is_ dead, given the strange circumstances in which he is currently mired.

But Al’s eyes twinkle at him, a knowing glint in them. “Have you?” He waves his hand around the room, pushing himself upright with a quiet groan. “Old age, if you’ll excuse me.” When he straightens and approaches the paintings on the wall, he continues. “There’s much you’ve yet to see, my boy. Much you’ve yet to do.” 

Rising to accompany the man, hoping to see some sort of hidden meaning in the painting the man— _Al_ , he corrects himself—sees, Harry crosses the room, standing shoulder to shoulder with him. “I’m sorry, Al, but how do you—”

“Know?” His gaze cuts to Harry’s face, and Harry can feel the heat of it on his cheek, willing away the blush that rises to his cheek, but Al turns, gesturing to the rest of the room. “We’ll call it a gift of the occupation. Each time a witch or wizard passes through here—and it happens far less often than my loquacious personality would prefer—I’m privy to the different paths your life could have taken.” Another quick silence, during which Al rubs his jaw thoughtfully. “This is but a simulacrum of what your life could have been.”

“You’re a gifted wizard, Harry, even though it doesn’t seem like it according to conventional wisdom.” Al’s smile is sharp, cutting off Harry’s scoffing retort. “Ah, ah, dear boy.” He waves the other hand around the room. “Again, privy to the different paths of your life. This one, it seems, isn’t quite complete yet. As I’ve said, you’ve much to complete before Death will call on you.” 

Considering him, Harry weighs the words. It’s a sentiment he’s heard before, though the last time he’d heard anything of that nature, it had come from the mouth of Trelawny and he’d waved it away as nothing more than the rambling of a semi-mad woman. But if it’s even a half-truth, Harry decides he is willing to give it a shot.

After all, it’s not often that one is given a second chance at living—Merlin, a third chance, in his case. 

Nodding, Harry speaks over his shoulder, knowledge heavy in him even as he asks, “And what, if you can disclose, is my unfinished business?” 

Al’s laughter borders on a titter. “Oh, Mister Potter, if I could tell you that, then it wouldn’t be much of a lesson, would it?”

Before Harry can whirl around, before he can even address the peculiarity of the question, Alastair snaps his fingers, and the room before him disappears as Alastair fades away, wrinkled hand waving as Harry drifts into darkness again.

* * *

When Harry opens his eyes again, the clocks don’t restart.

Not the minute he returns, not the day after, not the next month.

Six months later, and the clocks haven’t restarted. 

It’s strange, Harry mused, to see the battlefield so empty. Remnants of the battle are apparent everywhere he turns, but no human life shows itself. 

He knows he isn’t dead; Alastair had sent him back.

He can feel his heartbeat, still needs to hunt down food to satiate the ever-present hunger pains—though he’s grown entirely bored of the same four edible plants that grow in the vicinity. Gants Law be damned, he wants a nice steak and kidney pie.

As the days pass, his bitterness and resentment grow. Between the solitude and the guilt and grief he’s entangled in, Harry feels himself slowly sinking into a dark space within him, his hope for returning to his world leeching away each day with the vestiges of the sunset. 

Alastair, in all his infinite wisdom, had sent him to the wrong dimension, to a place where time didn’t mean anything and Harry is left to wander alone.

Except he isn’t. Not really.

After some time, he retraces his steps, and something has… shifted. Not in any significant or life-altering manner, but almost as though it’s been inverted to see if he’s watching closely enough. And he supposes, had he accepted complacy as his companion like it’d been for so long, he might have missed the way that everything seemed to rearrange itself into a weaving path leading him back to the castle.

Back to Hogwarts.

So he watches. If he’s learned nothing else from Hermione, it’s that observing has its merits. Funny how those things didn’t matter to him until he’d lost the connections that made them important. 

Whatever—or _who_ ever—it is had managed to evade him at every pass. It seemed that changing his sleep schedule did nothing to catch the perpetrator in the act, and so he follows the ever-winding path to Hogwarts in a blind confusion, his single-minded goal to find whoever or whatever it is so he wasn’t so alone in this strange new world.

But then he quite literally stumbles over them. 

It’s earlier than he’s normally about—or he assumes it is given the way the changing of the lighted hours seems to fluctuate here. Dappled light streams through the treetops of the Forbidden Forest as he approaches Hogwarts from it’s left rear flank.

He’d died not far from here.

But as he crests a small mound of moss-covered dirt, he looks toward the castle, curiosity a roiling tide in his stomach at what he may find. It isn’t until he’s pitching forward and rolling through the dirt and the leaves that he realises whatever he had tripped over had emitted a very human “Oof.”

He has no wand, no magic to speak of in this strange world he’s found himself deposited in, but he still leaps to his feet and sinks into a defensive crouch. Though the low light dances across his face and obstructs his vision, he recognises painfully familiar sandy blond hair and lanky figure that lopes toward him.

And then it stops before Harry, tossing his hair out of his face with a half smile, half grimace. “Bloody hell, Potter, you think you could avoid kicking me when we’re the only two people in the world.” 

“Nott?” Harry resists the urge to rub at his eyes, sure he’s hallucinating the wizard before him. A few rapid blinks don’t dispel the image though, and when he sticks a tentative hand upward in request for assistance standing, a very human, very _familiar_ , hand wraps around his.

Upon depositing Harry safely on his feet, the other wizard tucks his hands in the front pockets of his denims, shrugging slightly. “Theo.” The assertion is a reminder, one Harry has heard dozens of times.

Given they’d known each other only in the shadowed recesses of broom closets and under the strict limitation of time and stolen embraces, Harry had never grown comfortable with the use of his given name; it implies an intimacy he hadn’t been able to afford himself in those stolen moment. Harry smiles nonetheless, acquiescing to the demand. “Well then I’ll expect you to call me Harry.”

It’s a strange reminder of Harry’s time before the war, but not altogether unwelcome as a flash of longing rages haphazardly through him.

Thedore Nott had always been an enigma to him. Seeing him here, in this world devoid of anything familiar to anchor him beyond the castle and the grounds, only served to further complicate the already tangled mess of emotions Harry harboured for him.

It had started by accident. Or mostly accident. Harry had sought a quiet corridor and ducked into the alcove only to find Theo there with a rolled joint in his hand. The sweet swell of cloves had washed over him, and despite the trepidation Harry had felt when silence stretched between the pair, he’d accepted the joint when Theo extended it and taken a long drag.

Nott hadn’t laughed when Harry choked on the roiling smoke, but he had motioned for the joint back.

It was a peace offering Harry hadn’t expected and the beginning of a riot of emotions still ensnaring his heart.

As they walk, Harry remembers. Their meetings had become routine. They were fraught with tension, neither of them talking much and both skirting around the worlds they existed in.

Harry supposes they had been quite the odd pair, trolling around shadowed alcoves together, neither speaking or acknowledging the other’s presence as they shared in the smoky escape that the joints provided… until it turned into something else entirely.

They’d been the only times he’d felt normal, he mused as they navigated the forest, silence between them once more, so indicative of their early days together. But then it had changed—though there was no demarcation as to when it had occurred.

All he remembers is that one night they went from silent exchanges and tentative truces in the solace of the other’s quiet presence to a tentative friendship to…

Well, whatever it had been upon his departure for the horcrux hunt.

Somewhere along the way, they’d traded silence for friendly quips, then friendly quips for long laments about the state of the wizarding world and the way prejudice permeated and proliferated within Hogwarts’ walls, and then one afternoon, Harry had leaned across the small space they occupied together, joint outstretched, and Theo’s lips had sealed over his own.

Looking back, that was the beginning of everything, and also the end of many others, it seemed. 

Now, Theo leads him back the way Harry had rolled, through a small patch of wildflowers Harry had nary a clue had existed there until that moment—and which he doubted existed in his originating universe, given the ethereal glow which they emitted. Their trudging slows as they near the castle, and Harry cranes his head back, observing its facade.

It’s eerie, he thinks, seeing the torches extinguished, all the shadows in the stone pronounced and sinister. 

After a moment, he clears his throat when Theo makes to head inside. “Is it safe?” he asks, only a little mortified by how his voice shakes. If he is dead, he reasons, then entering the castle would be of no consequence. But the coiling fear in his stomach has nothing to do with fear or death or any presence that could lurk within the walls.

No, Harry isn’t sure if he’s more afraid of the unknown that landed him back here or the fact that he’s alone with the one person who frightens him more than even Voldemort.

Perhaps because the depth of emotion he feels for the wizard, even in this half-life in another dimension, were more real than anything he’s felt before.

Maybe because he’s scared Theo feels it, too.

Theo’s hand shoots back, interrupting his reverie and wrapping around his own, and with an encouraging smile, they enter the Grand Hall together.

They trek through the empty halls, mostly silent save for the odd comment about the differences between this Hogwarts and the Hogwarts of the Other. After their third pass through the castle, Harry finally stops, turning to Nott with a furrowed brow. “What are you doing here?”

Nott’s stance turns defensive, his gaze travelling anywhere but over Harry’s frame. “Same as you, I suppose.” 

Harry sucks on his teeth, eyeing the way Theo’s arms cross tightly over his chest. Something in him insists that Theo is hiding something. “But you weren’t at the battle. I never saw you—”

Theo interrupts him, shaking his head. “I was _there_ , Potter.” He takes off again, voice echoing through the empty corridor; there’s no need for discretion here. “Surprised you didn’t see me when you stepped forward for your death mission, though you never did care enough about how your recklessness affected others.”

Taken aback, Harry pauses, casting his mind back to try to place what Theo spoke of. All he can remember is the clearing, the sharp, manic laughter that was quintessential to Voldemort. But then he remembers.

Just before the curse hit him, mossy green eyes latching on his own, Theo shouting his name as the wand fire hit him square in the chest.

It’s a painful realisation, and he tries to shake it away. “But that means that you—”

“Gave myself away to the Dark Lord?” Theo shrugs, crossing to the Charms classroom and pushing the door open. The only contents in the room are spider-webbed chairs, dusty balls of long-forgotten parchment, and the tattered remains of books. “Yes, well it’s not every day that you watch the death of the person you—”

Theo’s voice cuts off, and he skirts around Harry, whose heart is suddenly in his throat and whose words escape him. After a moment, he clears his throat and pulls the door shut, following Theo down the hall, rapidly changing the subject. “Maybe we ought to try the kitchens?”

Silence fell between them again, each of them skirting their way around the mountain of unsaid sentiments Harry never thought he’d live to address.

It wasn’t that he was _afraid_ of allowing himself to feel them—no, it was more that he was afraid of what would happen should he allow himself to become attached.

After Sirius, Dobby, and Hedwig… well, he’d come to think of himself as cursed by more than having a chunk of Voldemort’s soul living rent-free inside him.

But as they entered the kitchens and found that it was largely untouched, large cabinets full of salted meats that still looked relatively edible despite the apparently long-abandoned castle, Harry allowed his worries to slip away, and he settled into the familiarity of Theo’s presence again.

It was nice, he decides, to be around human contact again, especially after so long without it. 

So when Theo eats his fill and pushed upright from the long, worn table that Harry assumed the elves had used for meal staging—given its likeness to the house tables in the Great Halls—and announces that he’ll leave Harry to his solitude again, Harry shoots up, wrapping his hand around the wizards wrist.

“Maybe we ought to work through it together, yeah?” He drops his gaze to the floor, unwilling to let Theo see the hope that he’s sure swims plainly in his eyes. Hermione always told him that his face could tell no lies. “We’re better in numbers,” he mumbles, the excuse flimsy even to his own ears.

However ridiculous the explanation, though, Theo smiles and acquiesces with a caveat: they bed down in the Slytherin dormitory, and Harry reluctantly agrees.

The trip to the dungeons is a quiet one, both of them lost in their thoughts as they walk, footsteps echoing from the cavernous ceiling. It’s strange, Harry thinks, to feel so alone in a place he always hoped for solitude in, but he supposes that there had always been a difference between wanting something and actually having it.

Though Harry had lingered near the entrance to the common room many times in the hopes of seeing Theo—before he’d admitted that the other wizard was more than a passing fancy—it’s jarring to see it devoid of magic. Theo needs no password as he pushes the door open, and no jolt of magic recognises Harry’s misplacement among the stone walls of the corridor.

And when they arrive in the open spacing of the sitting room, a slight green hue cast over everything from the dim sunlight through the Black Lake’s murky waters, not even a ripple of water disturbs the surface.

A thousand words race through Harry’s mind as they enter the Slytherin dormitory, beds lightly rumpled as though their inhabitants have only just left for the day. But Theo breaks the silence first, gesturing toward the beds nearest the window, bracketing the window. “The one on the left is… _was_ mine.” He approaches it, settling onto the edge with a heavy sigh. “The other one was Blaise’s.”

Following suit, Harry drops onto the lumpy mattress, immediately turning to stretch out length-wise on it. He stares up the canopy, willing words out of him, an easier task when he didn’t have to look on at Theo’s pale eyes. “I wonder why it’s just us…” He crosses his arms tight, a truth he didn’t want to acknowledge settling in his stomach. “What the unfinished business could be.”

Silence falls between them, and when he glanced toward Theo out of the corner of his eyes, he was sure the other wizard had fallen asleep. He’d reclined back at some point, his hands folded over his chest and back propped against flat pillow. He sighs, closing his eyes and drifting toward sleep with reluctant ease.

And just as he slips into sleep, he hears Theo move, heaving a heavy sigh with whispered words. “You are.”

* * *

Theo doesn’t acknowledge the words Harry is sure he heard him speak before he fell asleep, but it’s all the same to Harry.

It’s a frightening feeling, to know that Theo is so certain of something so large.

Another part of him whispers that rectifying this unfinished business could take them away from here, and Harry can’t find it in him to let it go.

Weeks pass, and their partnership isn’t always an easy one. Theo is determined to find a way out of whatever mess they’d found themselves in, making persistent but gentle advances on Harry, but fear clutches at Harry’s heart.

He’s content to finally, for _once_ in his shoddy existence, relax and enjoy a bit of peace and quiet. 

And this world is nothing but peace and quiet. 

The problem with that is it gives him plenty of time to think. _Too much_ time to think.

So he does what Harry Potter does when he gets scared.

He’s reckless.

After so long in the empty castle and avoiding Theo, Harry tries to break into Dumbledor’s office. 

It’s a harder feat than he expected, even without magic. Given the staircase normally spiraled upwards whenever he visited before, he has no idea how he’s going to make it to the top, so like any self-serving Gryfinfdor, he decides to scale the tunnel inside.

He’s only made a quarter of the way up when he realises that there’s no way to open the door that mocks him from the top. Almost simultaneous with the realisation, his foot slips free and he plummets back to the floor.

_Bugger it all, but he just needs an answer._

He needs to see if the Pensieve is there, if he can access the memories he’s buried deep within him for fear of confronting what he already knows is his purpose here. There’s no other reason he’d be shoved into another reality with the one person he longs for more than any other.

But instead of facing the fears that riot within him, Harry runs.

He sprints through the castle, wishing for magic that could whisk him to his destination for the umpeeth time, but instead he tears through the hallways like a man possessed.

And perhaps he is, in a manner of speaking.

Possessed by the certainty that he’s meant to be here to rectify the way he left Theo alone and uninformed before the horcrux hunt. Overtaken by the creeping guilt that he’s the one in the wrong. If not for him, Theo might still be alive instead of trapped in this sorry excuse for a reality. 

When he reels into the kitchen, socked feet slipping over the worn floor, he breathes a sigh of relief. Upon opening the pantry, bottles upon bottles of elf-made wine gracing the shelves.

He has no preference, drawing the nearest one from the shelf and sliding to the floor. As he uncorks it, he allows his head to fall back against the shelves. He’s never been one for drinking, but maybe it doesn’t count here.

* * *

It may have been several hours or only a handful of minutes that have passed when he hears his name called in the hallway, but Harry can’t rightfully focus. Not when the room spins so. Not when he’s adrift in the bottles of wine he’s downed in a misguided attempt to drown out his feelings. 

“Harry?”

The world turns on a pinwheel before him, the dull colours of the kitchens blending together, but Theo’s eyes are his one constant. Bright and worried, Theo’s gaze never leaves him as he hurries across the floor and catches Harry by the elbows as he pitches forward.

But they’ve never left him, his eyes, have they? Not since he they’d locked on his in the shadowed recesses of the alcove not so far from here. 

It's always been Theo. 

It was Theo now, lowering him gently to the floor as he turns so that Theo rests against the wall. Cold seeps into his bones where his legs splay out on the stone, but it’s so enticingly juxtaposed by the warmth of Theo’s torso. Distantly, he’s aware of Theo speaking soothingly to him and brushing his hair from his eyes.

And he wants to turn, to press his lips to Theo’s and find the answer to this bloody unfinished business so they can get out of here and return to a world that makes sense and is in order even _in_ its disorder, but he’s reluctant. To give this up, to confront the truth, to become vulnerable in a way he’s never quite allowed himself, even with Theo.

The pounding of his heart is the stuccato tick of a clock that is wholly missing from this world. 

But in the end, it’s Theo that makes the decision for him.

Gently, so carefully it makes his heart ache even through the haze of alcohol, Theo lifts him from the floor, wrapping his arms beneath him, and carries him bridal style through the castle. His gait is easy and unhurried, and though Harry should feel embarrassed for sinking into the wizard’s body like a lead weight, he can’t help but nestle into the warmth of Theo’s neck. 

The brush of his stubble against the expanse of his brow is far more comforting than anything Harry has experienced before. It’s familiar in an achingly painful way, something he’s craved for so long but forcibly abstained from.

And maybe it’s the alcohol coursing through him… maybe it’s the sorrow and loneliness and the gamut of other emotions he’s increasingly forced to deal with here, but he knows with a pang that his unfinished business is Theo.

Theo, with his solemn, steady gaze. With his quiet, easy acceptance. 

The long trek to the Slytherin dormitory ends, and when Theo settles him on the bed with a pinched brow and a worried gaze. But before he can move, Harry musters up a modicum of the courage he’s buried and wraps a hand around Theo’s wrist. His voice is scratchy and unrecognisable from the liquor he’s consumed, but he tries anyway. He’s nothing to lose anymore. “Stay.”

The words hang in the air between them, an acknowledgement and apology, and when Theo settles alongside him again, Harry tucks himself into his side as the spinning tapers off and he gives in to the blanket of sleep that falls over him, half expecting to open his eyes to the forest and the world he left behind.

* * *

Theo grows into his veins like the ivy that begins to overtake Hogwarts.

Harry has noticed that time is different here, from the way the sun rises and sets to the every-encroaching forest that slowly descends on the castle. But the way Theo nestles into his heart in a way that Harry never allowed him to before is an entirely different kind of invasion.

It’s a welcome change from the dread and loneliness that Harry had wrapped around himself, and he approaches this new season with Theo carefully. 

Neither of them addresses the shift in their relationship. Instead, they slowly fall into one another, reminiscent of their time together before.

And learning each other again— _truly_ learning each other—is an experience in and of itself. They aren’t physical. At least not in the manner they were before. They don’t kiss, don’t hold each other but for the dark of night beneath the canopied bed in Theo’s dormitory. Harry isn’t ready for that yet, he tells himself. 

Both of them seem to understand that this time is different.

They’re sitting beneath the Whomping Willow, eerily still and quiet, a shadow of its former terrifying glory, when Theo broaches the subject. “What do you think we need to do?” 

Harry stiffens, and Theo turns to him, keen gaze eyeing his profile. “I’m not sure,” Harry muses, though the words are hollow. “Alastair said I had unfinished business.”

Beside him, Theo turns out to gaze at the grounds, humming to himself. “Right. Unfinished business… he said as much to me.” 

On a whim, Harry faces Theo. “Let’s go. Leave Hogwarts, travel, see the world.”

For the first time in what seems like months, Theo cracks a smile. “And how do you suggest we do that, Potter? We’ve no magic.” 

Harry lifts his shoulder with a self-deprecating laugh. “We’ll do it the Muggle way.” Tentative hope bolsters him, and he reaches across the space between them, clasping Theo’s hand. “I’ll show you.”

Theo’s answering smile rivals the sun.

* * *

Harry does show him. They walk together, in silence at first and slowly falling into an easy conversation, into a Muggle village not far from Hogwarts. Theo delights in the first fresh fruit they’ve seen in days, taken from a vendor’s table left abandoned in the village square.

A small part of Harry thaws at the easy joy in Theo’s demeanor. 

When Harry finds a small Muggle car with enough gas to putter around the country with no particular end in sight, Theo’s fascination is contagious. The transportation is something of a magic to Theo, and Harry appreciates it with newfound enthusiasm.

When they stumble into an old disco in Leeds, Harry fiddles with the knobs on the stereo until music blasts over the speakers. They dance, both a riot of laughter and carefree joy, relishing in the beauty of the night. 

It’s Theo’s idea to crash into a small cottage down the street, taking care not to break the lock that Harry fiddles open. It’s quaint and clean, all fresh whites and crisp linen, and when Theo slips his hand free of Harry’s in favour of a shower, pensiveness falls over Harry.

The soft pattering of the shower water falls over him, and Harry paces to the front door, leaning against the jam as he looks out. With no one there to pay any mind to the street lamps, they’ve burnt out, only a few dotting the night sky every kilometre or so. Neon lights flicker, and though Harry can feel the creeping of dread coil within himself, he looks toward the stars.

They’re bright, the light of them twinkling in the night sky, and it’s as though a piece of him settles within himself. He remembers Hermione’s prattling one night in the tent, droning on about the stars and their significance, and something pulls him out of the cottage.

He’d never fancied himself a dreamer—quite the opposite in fact—and he’d never have called himself a romantic, but as he spins in a slow circle, basking in the warmth of the night, he admires the sky.

“Harry? Shower’s free.” Theo’s voice again, this time from directly behind him, and Harry turns, gaze still on the stars. It’s only when he stops, facing toward the cottage, that he sees it.

Just above Theo, where the night sky meets the peak of the roof, the north star shines bright and proud. Hermione’s words come back to him: _the north star will always guide you home._

And everything shifts. It’s ridiculous, really, how simple it is. How _right_ it feels to step forward into Theo’s space, even as the other wizard’s eyes widen in surprise. But Harry clears his throat, tight with emotion. “It’s you, Theo.”

The other wizard pauses, eyeing him carefully. “I don’t follow, Harry.” There’s an undercurrent of emotion in the words, a timid hope that Harry can see blooming in Theo’s eyes.

So he steps forward, sliding his arms along the exposed skin of his hips, just above where Theo has slung a towel. Droplets of water still cling to his flesh, and Harry feels him shiver, though he hopes it has nothing to do with the breeze and everything to do with his proximity. “All of this; why we’re here, why I keep running away… I think I’ve always known that you were my unfinished business.” He heaves in a deep breath, looking away as he works his jaw. “You’ve been there through it all—through everything that mattered,” he amended, “and I ran away.” 

Theo’s mouth opens in surprise, but he quickly closes it, nodding. “I was…” He trails off, uncertainty on his face as he brings a hand up to cradle Harry’s jaw as though he was made of glass. “All this time… I hoped. But I couldn’t push you; I’ve never been able to.” His smile is watery. “I’ve always taken whatever I could get with you, Harry.”

This time, Harry’s answering smile is bright, the tightness in his chest vanishing as he leans forward, eyes closing against the starlight. “Time doesn’t matter here, but you do. I think it’s time I gave you all of me, yeah?”

A vibrant laugh spills from Theo’s lips, but Harry cuts it off, crashing against the wizard with the force of his emotions. A dam breaks loose inside him, and suddenly he’s pouring more emotion into the embrace than he’s ever allowed himself to feel.

It’s overwhelming and overdue, and he can feel the emotion spilling over inside him, but he can’t stop as he buries his hands into Theo’s hair and the other wizard wraps his long, lean arms around Harry’s waist pulling him tight against him.

It’s like coming home, and Harry knows; this is where he’s meant to be.

They stumble together into the house, unable to break apart. Though Harry rationalises that it’s to make up for lost time, a distant part of him recognises that it’s driven by both of their fear.

That this might be too good to be true, that they might wake up tomorrow to have the rug yanked out from beneath them.

But tonight, in the light of the moon and on borrowed sheets in a cottage of a world that’s all their own, Harry and Theo lose themselves in each other. If only while the clocks are stopped.

* * *

When they awake the next morning, Harry finds Theo wrapped around him. His hair is in his mouth, his cheek heavy on his chest, but none of that matters. Contentment courses through every beat of his heart.

It’s a slow moment, waking up together, but when Theo pulls back and presses a gently kiss to his lips, Harry knows it was worth it all.

They dress in silence, both of them contemplative but unwilling or unable—Harry isn’t sure—to vocalise what they both know; this is it.

Finally, after stalling for as long as they can, arranging the pillows neatly on the bed and tucking everything back in the place it belongs, they meet at the end of the bed. Harry breaks the silence, glancing toward the door. “Ready?”

A beat of silence, followed by Theo’s hand slipping into his own with one long squeeze. “Whenever you are.”

Harry reaches for the handle, a deep breath bolstering him, and he pulls it open. He recognises the faded neutral wallpaper as they descend the stairs, and with a sharp breath he wonders why he didn’t place it upon their first entrance. 

When they come to a stop at the bottom of the staircase, Harry and Theo find themselves in Alistair’s sitting room again. This time, however, the decor is different.

The hideous mustard chair still decorates one corner of the room, and the same tabby cat with patchwork fur rests comfortably in it. But the walls are adorned with photographs, each one a progression of Theo and Harry together. 

Harry’s breath catches in his throat, and he approaches the wall, transfixed by a photo of he and Theo holding hands in the Great Hall. Giant holes still mar the grand ceiling, and if he looks close enough, he can still see smoke rolling toward the bright blue sky. A glance between he and Theo reveal that they’re wearing the same clothes they’re currently clad in.

The others continue, each one showing a snapshot of a moment in their lives together. Laughing in pubs, family Christmas at the Weasleys, attending a wedding— _Malfoy and Hermione’s_ wedding, Harry realises with a jolt. But each photograph reveals the joy and warmth that blooms between them now, the same hopeful, cautious elation that he feels every time his hand slips into Theo’s.

Once more, the wooden divider creaks open, and Alastair strolls out. This time, he comes empty handed, though the smile brightening his face is enough of a gift for Harry. When Harry settles beside Theo again and their hands intwine, Alastair nods. “I assume you’ve discovered the source of your unfinished business?”

Though Harry might have once sought the answer from Theo, too nervous to make the declaration himself, he squeezes the man’s hand, conviction colouring his answer. “I have— _we_ have,” he corrects himself. 

Beside him, Theo laughs, the sound confident and musical. “It seems as though you know what you’re doing, Al. Though I don’t appreciate the cryptic nature of it, I do approve of the outcome.”

Alastair doubles over then, his laughter wheezy and bright. When he rightens himself, tears shine in his eyes. “Oh, but I love my job.” Suddenly, his face takes on a serious light, eyeing the clock above the mantle. “As delighted as I am to see you—and believe me, I am—it looks like your time with me is nearing an end.”

Sure enough, when Harry turns to the clock, the second hand moves. One click.

It’s one resounding click, but the clocks are moving forward, and he clings to Theo like a lifeline. A knot forms in his throat, and he steps forward, pleading with Alastair. “What happens? What happens when the clocks begin again?”

But time isn’t waiting for them anymore, and in that instant, Harry knows. They’ll go back, back to the war, to the death, to all the horrible things that plagued them before this reprieve. But through the end, he’ll have Theo. And the photos on the wall remind him that he’ll make it out alive.

For the first time in a long time, he hopes.

So when the ticking becomes steady, the clock’s hands slowly, _painfully_ turning their gears again, he slips backward, clasping Theo’s hand, and they smile at each other as the room fades, Alastair’s warm wishes seeing them back.

Back to the lives they left. Back to face the rest of their unfinished business. Back to the adventure that’s just beginning for them.

And when the clocks start ticking in earnest again, they walk back into the battle, hand in hand, ready to fight for the future they’d found in each other. 

Together. 

**Author's Note:**

> Endless thanks to mcal for being an alpha goddess at the last minute when my nerves took over and I almost ditched this lol I appreciate you, lovely lady.  
> This piece was written for The Write Stuff's Christmas exchange.


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